Nocturne
by Tara1189
Summary: 1x08, The Beginning of the End. Alone in the hours of darkness, Morgana, Mordred and Merlin reflect. Oneshot.
1. Morgana

**Summary: **1x08, The Beginning of the End. Alone in the hours of darkness, Morgana, Mordred and Merlin reflect. Oneshot.

* * *

_Carry my soul into the night  
May the stars guide my way.  
I glory in the sight  
As darkness takes the day. _

_Sing a song, a song of life  
Made without regret  
Tell the ones, the ones I loved  
I never will forget  
Never will forget._

'In Noctem', _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ soundtrack

* * *

**Nocturne**

**I**

**Morgana**

The outer darkness descended over the glass like spilled ink. Beneath the cold chill of the moon, she shivered, though the interior of her chamber was full of warmth and light. Blue veils of moonlight silhouetted her slender figure standing at the window, facing out into the night. She could see the slightly blurred reflection of her face in the glass. Grey-green eyes were bleak with misery and apprehension, her gaze distant and pensive. The skin of her bared shoulders was very white against the dark violet silk of her gown, and, exposed to the night air, icy cold. Her black hair rippled like shifts of dark water in the cold draught that whispered through the chamber.

Morgana was alone, and she felt it. She had not realised how used to the child's presence she had become over the last few days, but now his absence was like an emptiness eating away at her soul. She closed her eyes, once again seeing his image against the backs of her eyelids. The ink-black hair, wide blue eyes, skin so pale it seemed almost luminous with fever, the shadows beneath his eyes turned to faded lavender. Any other child his age would have been bright with eagerness and vitality, not wasting away to bones and shadow, forced to grow up too fast in a world of fear with the threat of death ever present. What other horrors had his young mind been exposed to? Had he not endured enough already? To see his sole protector executed. To see his anguished face in shattered glass as his thin chest rose and fell with terror. Even now the memory of his scream coursed through her ears. The splintering glass blinded her. She had hidden the broken shards of her mirror away, fearing that anything out of the ordinary could lead to discovery. The sharp crystalline fragments were still concealed in the darkest corner of her wardrobe. But memories could not be so easily buried.

Sudden hatred for Uther surged through her body like a white-hot lance, startling her in its intensity. Her white fists clenched, the painful gauges her nails left in her palms vividly recalling to mind the blood that had stained the boy's shirt like spilled wine, seeping ever outwards as his blue-veined eyelids fluttered uncertainly between life and death.

How could this be justice? That Uther's cruelty could extend to the killing of a poor, lonely, lost child… How could such an innocent be capable of evil?

And the boy, was he thinking of her? Was he lying alone in that cold cell, thinking no one was coming for him, that they had forgotten him? No, never, never! She would see him saved if it was the last thing she did. Tonight, she was to lie to her lord and guardian and she would do so with a song in her heart. She could not love Uther now. She could not even pity him. How could she?

She was prepared to endure danger, displeasure, even death… all for this child. What had brought her to this? What was it, this unknown place he had awakened deep within herself?

_I… I love him. As a mother does the babe at her breast. And he loves me. I know it. I've seen it in his eyes._

So much had she felt, so much had he told her without words. From the very first moment she had set eyes on him, she had felt that connection, vivid and flaring, spring to life between them. She knew he had magic, yet she did not fear him. No, her heart and soul ached for him; to soothe away his tears, to cherish and comfort him with soft words, to feel the warmth of his skin as she held him close in her arms. She longed to protect him from this cold, dark world. A world of nightmares. Of fear. And death, death everywhere.

How strange it was that by day she was strong and undaunted, able to face anything, yet at night, her strength dwindled to no more than that of a pale ghost, rendering her terrifyingly helpless and completely at the mercy of the nocturnal premonitions that plagued her mind and would allow her no rest. Sweating and shaking, she would awake in the cold light of dawn and stare at the stricken woman in the mirror, and in those times she hardly knew herself. She moved vaguely, lost in a sea of dreams.

She hated this, the fear, the uncertainty. The Lady Morgana was not supposed to know fear. It was easy enough in the daylight hours to smile and laugh, but when darkness came upon her and she felt the call of sleep like a wave of all-enveloping mist, then the sense of foreboding overpowered her once more. She was aware of it even now, tugging at her body like chains of silk and moonlight as the breath caught in her throat. With an exertion of will, she forced it down, honing her consciousness to a sharp knife's point, focusing on what she must do. No time now to succumb to the inevitable tide of sleep and the images that haunted her pillow.

At night, Morgana dreamt of dark forests, of stone walls and silver mists and swords and destiny. The images came to her like memories of another life. But this child was no dream stealing upon the vulnerable edges of her half-conscious mind in those veiled grey hours between sleeping and waking. No, he had appeared to her in the glaring light of day. A sign. A purpose. That she must save him was the one certain thing in her world of half-forgotten dreams and truths shrouded in somnolent mists. He had been brought to her for a reason.

_But I had the chance to save him. And I failed._

For a moment, tears blinded her. She had promised no harm would come to him. The memory was like a painful laceration to the heart. Fragile whispers and softly murmured promises that had splintered apart in that fatal moment of discovery. She could not allow such a thing to happen again. The thought of his still, pale face with the blue-tinged eyelids forever closed filled her with terror.

She had never felt like this before. She did not know how to control this intense, terrifying love burning within her entire being. Never before had she known such shattering anguish, the sense of self missing that she saw completed in this quiet, self-contained child.

_He is my son. As dear to me as life itself. The child not of my body, but of my soul._

Perhaps such things were not meant to be explained.

But Merlin, Merlin had seemed to understand. There was more happening within his enigmatic mind than he was telling her, of that she was certain. There had been a glimpse, a flicker, a _something _in his dark blue eyes, but then he had pulled away, retreating from going too far, too deep. But it was too late for her.

She had never known such closeness to anyone than with this child in those calm silences when he would open his eyes and look at her with such solemn appeal. Such old eyes in that young face. She would see them in her dreams and her dreams would no longer be nightmares.

_But he has no one. How lonely and afraid he must be._

Even if he did reach the Druids, would they protect him? Uther had always spoken of the Druids as enemies, and even though Morgana had come to doubt her guardian's judgement, she could not escape the image of these mysterious beings, tall and pale and terrible as they stood in the silent forests. They too had appeared in her dreams with bowed heads and green robes bound with silver cords, hovering always just beyond her reach.

Even if the child did find sanctuary among them, she would never see him again. He could never return to Camelot. A convulsive tide of sorrow and loss came over her. She did not even turn around as Guinevere entered but remained still and tense, her hands trembling in the folds of her gown as every part of her being silently prayed and hoped that Arthur's plan would succeed. She _must _hope, even though it came at the cost of the child leaving Camelot forever.

Oh, but to see him once more! To hold him to her, to stroke the soft, dark curls from his forehead with a trembling, searing touch, and kiss the youthful cheeks that had never received any heartfelt affection. To have him close to her heart, always. He had looked so young curled in a midst of bed sheets, pale cheeks flushed with fever, dark hair curled around his forehead, damp with perspiration. He had never known a mother's love. And she could do nothing…

The light of the candle wavered and danced before her blurred gaze. It burned her eyes. Bright and pure. Like Gwen. Gwen, for whom things were so simple and uncomplicated. Morgana could not understand that bright, unquenchable spirit, and realised that she never had. Sweet Gwen, whose pillow was never haunted by nightmares, who was never chilled by the shadow of fears that had not yet come to pass. She did not move as Guinevere saw to her fastenings, her expression distant and melancholy.

"Thank you," she said absently. Then she saw Guinevere's face. Those honest dark eyes held a distance within them, and Morgana knew this was something that, for the first time, she could not share with her maid. It made her sad in a way she could not explain.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"You're risking so much for this boy. You don't know anything about him; you don't even know his name."

_But he knows mine. He spoke to me. I heard it, inside my mind. _"There's a bond between us," was all she said.

"Stronger than the bond you have with Uther?" demanded Gwen.

"Like nothing I've ever felt before." Her eyes burned with a clear, vivid light, like green crystals in her very white face. She tried to smile and felt her heart splinter at the effort. "Perhaps I was meant to help him."

"How can that be?"

Some painful force was knotting her vocal cords together; it hurt to speak. "I don't know. I can't explain it."

Guinevere continued to look doubtful. _I'm losing her, _Morgana thought sombrely_. But if I must choose between Gwen and the boy, I will choose the child. I cannot bear to see him suffer again_. "I must go to Uther."

She could still feel Gwen's eyes on her as she left the room.


	2. Mordred

**Nocturne**

**II**

**Mordred**

Outside the stone cell, Death waited.

Discordant shadows moved across damp walls. Slick puddles had gathered on the stone floor, their surfaces still as black glass. The drip and echo of water surrounded him. The boy was seated on the hard stones, legs drawn up to his chin and arms wrapped around his knees. His head was bowed, ink-black locks falling over his brow, his lips almost blue with cold in the eerie half-light. Sleep had long since eluded him. He had been given a blanket but it was worn and musty-smelling and gnawed by rats and he would not touch it. But he locked this discomfort away deep within him, yet another injustice to fuel the hatred brewing within him towards Uther Pendragon.

He was cold and hungry and afraid, more afraid than he had ever been in his short span of years. Yet Mordred had not screamed or struggled, not when the guards had gripped him cruelly and torn him from Morgana, not even when they had flung him into this cell and left him alone in the darkness without food or water.

He shivered in his thin shirt, his cloak drawn tightly around him. There were no windows to allow the clear sharpness of cold night air to cut through the close darkness. There was only shadows and despair.

He had never feared the dark before; rather, he had always loved the night, the silence, the solitude. To sit under the moon and stars and hear the night whispers surrounding him, the delicate breath of magic carried on the still air. But now the blackness of the cell rose up inside his soul, choking him, blighting all hope, strength… life. Terrors seemed to crouch in every shadow. Every sound a chilling portent.

He did not want to die. It was no easy thing to be so young and told you were going to die, that no one would intervene to save you -

No. _She _would do something. _She _would not let him die.

Morgana.

The name was like music, a haunting litany of beauty and sadness, the ghost of a mother's love he could no longer remember lingering still beneath his skin. An ethereal pain deep in his heart.

She was the most enchanting thing he had ever seen. Beautiful and cold and untouchable. Except when she looked at him. Then he saw something that the dark labyrinths of his mind had almost forgotten existed. Tenderness. A warmth that thawed the frost of the aloof Lady Morgana. She was marble and glass, moonlight and shadow. Not like the other - Gwen, did they call her? Gwen was smiles and sunshine and, to him, entirely uninteresting. Not for her the poetry and subtleties of timeless magic, walking the borders between dreams and waking, the shadowy places where the mind and soul could leave the body, or forge a bond with another, a bond so strong that not even death itself could sever it.

Mordred had known at once that she possessed magic. Why had the Druids never told him? They had spoken of Emrys. The boy's face creased in a frown of mistrust. Confused, lonely Emrys, who had no idea of his importance in all this. Yes, his name had been long known among the Druids. But it was not with Emrys that he shared this mysterious harmony of trust and longing. Although he had been delirious and so terribly weak, those brief hours with Morgana had been some of the happiest in his starved life. He would remember them always.

She had been the one constant in those blurring places between light and dark, the awareness of her always beside him as he shuddered with cold, the metallic tang of blood sharp through the mists surrounding his semi-conscious mind. There had been other figures too, an old man probing at his wound with worn fingers, forcing something hot and bitter down his throat, the prying maidservant staring at him with suspicious dark eyes, and Emrys… Emrys, hovering in the background of everything, always. Emrys who refused to come too close. But none of them mattered. There was only Morgana.

No one had ever cared before… not like _her. _No one had ever nursed him so tirelessly, healed his wounds and alleviated his pain. No one had ever _loved _him. She made him feel… safe. He did not want her to think him a child, but at the same time he longed to lie in her arms forever, to feel the midnight silk of her hair like a sweep of soft darkness against his skin as she knelt over him, the comforting words she whispered in his ear as her cool hands soothed his fevered brow. The tender reverence with which she looked at him made him ache in a way he could not understand. He had never truly valued anyone before. But if they were to sever him from Morgana…

Tears stung the backs of his eyes and he furiously blinked them away. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry, he _wouldn't. _His hands, curled around his knees, tightened in a frigid grip. It was the closest he had come to tears since he could remember. He had learned long ago not to cry, nor would he want anyone to see him do so. He was self-contained, far more self-contained than most children his age. They called him a child, but Mordred knew already that he was not like other children, those dirt-ridden boys he had witnessed playing in the city. He had watched them that day, half in contempt, half with a strange pang of longing he could not explain. It was only when he saw _her _that he realised.

He was… lonely. He knew now what it was he had wanted all these years, curled up alone in the dark, sleepless and silent. He had wanted a mother.

He wanted Morgana.

It had never occurred to him before that he might need or want anyone else. Even the Druids saw him only as a valuable ally and a potent magical vessel, a source of power that might one day hope to bring down the tyrannical reign of Uther Pendragon.

For a moment, the boy's face contorted with a look of malevolent hatred that was chilling to witness in one so young. Beneath the cool exterior, a secret, buried part of him burned and froze with terror and the desire for vengeance, the tremors wracking through his bones like an aftershock of the fever that had ravaged his veins. And alone, unwitnessed in the dark, Mordred made a silent vow. If he survived this, he would make Uther pay. Uther and all who served him. In his enigmatic, complicated mind, this one thought emerged with startling clarity. Uther was the reason he was alone and persecuted, Uther was the reason the Druids could not tell him where he came from. If he lived, he would watch Uther scream, and bleed, and feel pain, just as he had felt pain. Wound for wound, hurt for hurt. The Druids were a peaceful people but Mordred did not want peace. He wanted vengeance. It was the one thing he wanted more than anything in this world…

Apart from her.

He did not want to share her with anyone. Morgana was his and his alone. He envied even those companions he had witnessed in her chamber, each with a greater claim to her love than him. What _right _did they have to claim her love, when he himself had received none? They didn't need her. Not like he did. Morgana did not belong with these people. She was like him. They even _looked _something alike.

He buried his face in his crossed arms, the intense longing rising up inside his chest almost choking him. He wanted to see her. If he was to die, he wanted _her _to be there at the end, for her beautiful face to be the last thing he saw. Would she weep for him, the brave, indomitable Lady Morgana? Oh, how he wanted her with him! With her at his side, he could face anything, even death. He wanted to call out to her with his mind, but what would he say? His cracked, dry lips framed silent words. _Morgana. Help me, Morgana. I'm scared._

But his lips froze around the silent appeal. He would not allow himself to be afraid, but instead would lock the fear away in that place deep inside him, as he did with all unpleasant things. But what if he never saw her again? This might be the last time, the very last…

His mind reached out, seeking that connection, concentrating on forming the shape of the words in his mind -

The sound of a slamming door jolted through his nerves, shattering his concentration. His skin went cold. Footsteps. Someone was coming. Coming for _him. _For a fleeting instant, blind hope flared within him. What if it was Morgana, come to save him?

But it was not. He would _know._

Yet it could not end here. Not like this. He had a fate, a destiny to fulfil, one that did not end in a dirt-ridden cell. One that did not separate him from Morgana forever. When he was older, he would come back for her and take her from this place. _He _would be the rescuer, and _she _would be in his care. She would stay with him always, just the two of them -

Still the footsteps approached. Mordred was numb. The bright agony of grief and despair and terror had faded dimly, like a dream on waking. Now he only waited.

The door swung open, the glaring light of the torches in their bronze sconces searing his vision. It silhouetted the powerful frame of Arthur Pendragon, prince of Camelot. His dark brows narrowed. Son of Uther the traitor.

Warily, the boy braced himself against the wall, the stones freezing beneath his bare hands. Suppositions fleetingly passed through his mind. He could use magic to get past the prince, but what of the guards and the rest of the castle still searching for him? What of the sickness still running through his veins that even now turned him cold and faint and shaking?

Still, if he must try -

"Don't be scared."

Burning light was behind Arthur. It hurt Mordred's eyes. Doubt and distrust were written across his pale features. There was no doubt in his mind that this bright-haired man was to take him to his death. After all, what claim did he have over the prince, when Arthur was honour-bound to serve and obey his cruel father in all things? _I want Morgana, _the boy almost said, but fought down the childish impulse. His heart thumped sickeningly.

"I've sent word to your people; I'm taking you to them," continued the prince.

Mordred said nothing. Revealed nothing. But he was really being rescued… _He was not going to die._ Sweeping relief overwhelmed him momentarily, but he fought it down, expressing no emotion in his solemn, intent face.

"You must come with me," said Arthur.

Mordred raised his head and stared at the prince calmly.

Vengeance could wait. He would leave now, and bide his time. But he would not forget.

And he took Arthur's hand.


	3. Merlin

**Nocturne**

**III**

**Merlin**

The moon was high and cold in the night sky. The still scent of darkness surrounded him. The flickering embers of the candles had long since died, yet sleep remained a far and distant longing. This night seemed to go on forever.

Merlin was seated rigidly on the bed, unable to rest, unable to move. His blue eyes were very dark in his pale face, the irises seeming to have drank in the night sky, turning them almost black. Cool air touched his face and hands, his throat where the shirt collars lay open. He could hear nothing above the breathing in his own ears. If there had only been the clatter of guards in the courtyard below or even the sounds of Gaius sleeping next door, anything to distract him from his own thoughts...

He was staring blankly ahead like a blind man, unable to grasp what was before -white moonlight spilled across the stone floor. He was so cold, and there was nothing but this: the cold, the moonlight and the silence.

If he could only sleep… why had he not asked Gaius for one of those remedies he provided Morgana? Yet he knew now that if he left his chamber, his resolve would falter. And in this, he could not afford to be weak.

To an outside observer, in his stiff posture he was as unmoving as a statue but Merlin was painfully aware of every inch of his body. He could feel the pulse hammering at the base of his throat, the shaking of his hands. After all, he was only a servant, a servant who had never felt so utterly lost. The choice he made this night would be irreversible.

_How can I make such a choice? How can I hold such power over life and death?_

Could he really risk Arthur's like for a boy, a boy he did not even know? Moreover, one whom he could not entirely trust? There was something knowing in the child's eyes, something Merlin was not entirely sure he liked. The memory of that voice inside his head rose up and chilled him.

Emrys. The boy had called him Emrys. What did it mean? The one word whispered in his mind from the child who had watched him so intently. He shuddered at the memory of that voice. Yet it was not the moment of telepathy that disturbed him so much as the long silences that lay between. Was it because the boy could not talk or _would _not? How much had he seen beneath those half-closed lids, how much did he know? What secrets lay behind the mysterious patterns inked onto his white skin? And that face, pale and enigmatic, strangely illuminated by fever and unknown power. Why did it seem somehow familiar? Why did it fill him with unnameable fear?

Merlin clenched his jaw, hardening his resolve.

_I won't do it. I will not let Arthur die. I cannot._

The chamber was blue. Midnight blue. The hypnotic blue of a child's eyes, potent and mysterious. And powerful. That much he knew. But still he did not dare to believe what he so terribly feared.

He looked up towards the window. Beyond the shadowy and ancient walls of Camelot, in the darkened forests, the Druids would be waiting. _As Gaius would had it been me. _Merlin shivered_. _This would be him, if Uther ever discovered his secret_. _How could he be contemplating this? This boy was _like _him. And Morgana would never forgive him.

Merlin frowned. Morgana, something else that gave him cause for unease. She had always been pale but now there was a strangely translucent quality to her as she sometimes spoke and moved with the intense, dreamlike concentration of a sleepwalker. He knew she suffered from nightmares - Gaius had told him as much - but she had become so strained, so listless. What had happened to the Morgana who smiled and laughed, who teased Arthur and bantered with Gwen? It seemed like a hundred years ago.

Vulnerability. That was what he had glimpsed in her eyes. Morgana was always so self-assured, so confident before the Court, before Uther. He had thought that nothing could touch her. But to see her so fragile, so _afraid… _what he was about to do would destroy her. He could vividly recall the image of her too-pale face framed by dark hair, the agonised, entreating appeal in her eyes. He realised now that he had been wrong to bring the boy to her chambers. She had become intensely, unhealthily attached to the child. What strange influence was it that the boy held over her? He had never seen her so single-mindedly focused, so _ruthless. _Yet a part of him envied her certainty, her steadfast conviction. She defied Uther and dared his fury while he wrestled and agonised over loyalties, caught between two worlds, yet fully belonging in neither.

He trusted her, yet did not trust her. There was so much he wanted to say, if he could only find the words. This secret was burning deep inside him; the agonised knowledge that every day he must lie to Gwen, to Morgana, to Arthur. But there had been a moment in Morgana's chamber, fleeting and cautious. He had glimpsed the uncertainty, the wavering, in her gaze. Not quite daring to believe. She was close, though, and he knew that with a little persistence on his part, he could persuade her that magic was not something evil or to be feared. He could do all this… yet he did not. What made him hesitate? This was Morgana. He _knew_ her. Then what chill foreboding, what haunting premonition held him back from revealing his secret?

_The boy, _he realised. _She trusts him and I don't._

_What harm has he ever done anyone, _Morgana had asked him.

_None, _thought Merlin._ But it's what he's going to do._

Shafts of pale moonlight pierced the darkness. His head was bowed, like that of a penitent. His mouth was pulled in a grim line; his face taut with strain. The world seemed to tilt on its side as he tried to contemplate the unthinkable.

Arthur dead, Arthur dying?

Such a thought was unendurable. It was almost physical pain, an agony inarticulate and blinding.

But surely nothing was certain? No fate was set in stone. But was it worth the risk? His thin body shivered in and out of the cold light. He could feel the perspiration on his brow, cooling in the night air. He could not think of losing Arthur.

Rash the prince might be, domineering certainly and arrogant to a fault, but he also had the truest heart Merlin had ever known. He was under no illusions. He saw what Arthur was with clarity, but also what he could be. Arthur had taught him what it was to put your faith in someone else, to make sacrifices in the name of love and honour and duty, to trust another and how that trust could make you strong, make you show bravery you never thought you had. Whatever this bond was between them, it went beyond like or hate or the petty annoyances that trivialised their relationship. There had never been any doubt. He would die for Arthur without a moment's hesitation.

_But are you prepared to kill for him?_

Merlin stared down at his hands that lay open in his lap. They were very white against the surrounding darkness, the tracery of blue veins visible beneath the fine skin of his wrists. Were these the hands of someone who could kill?

His heart was pounding beneath his frozen skin. Could he really do it? Could he allow a child to die? He took a deep, steadying breath, trying to think… _how _could he think? Who could he possibly turn to?

_What would Arthur do?_

But he knew the answer to that already. For Arthur, honour and integrity would always come first. But Arthur was a hero, and heroes were not like other people. Arthur would put himself in peril to do what was right. He would die for this boy without hesitation, even if he knew what Merlin himself knew. He would still do what he considered to be right, that would always come first.

_But that is why he has you. To save him when he cannot save himself._

_Two sides of the same coin, _the Great Dragon had said. Only now was Merlin coming to understand the true meaning of those words, though he had taken them on as a sacred trust almost before realising it. Arthur was the light to his shade. Clarity to his confusion, integrity to his secrecy. To lose Arthur would be lose his own sense of self. Arthur was his purpose, his meaning, even without destiny. They were bound beyond such ties; he would help Arthur because he must. Because he would not be himself otherwise. Nothing was more important. It was for the greater good.

_You have it in your power to prevent a great evil. _

Merlin shuddered again as the Dragon's words echoed in his mind with the resounding clarity of a tolling bell.

No. He had not imagined it. The warning bell had sounded. The single gong seemed to take an age to reverberate, sonorous tones echoing off the stone walls, vibrating through his body that tensed all over at the sound. This, the moment, had finally arrived. They would be waiting for him, wondering why he did not come as he had promised. He could not bear to think about the betrayal in the boy's eyes when they would finally realise he was not coming, and so, sealed his death warrant. Worse even that that perhaps, was the thought of Arthur's disappointment. To renege on a promise and ensure the death of a child… it was unforgivable. _And I can never tell him why. He already thinks me worthless._

That thought brought him more pain than he ever would have imagined possible.

The warning bell tolled out again. Merlin curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around his chest, feeling the frenetic pounding of his heart. He closed his eyes, dark lashes casting long shadows across his pale cheeks.

_Emrys. _

He drew a sharp intake of breath. That voice. He could not mistake it anywhere. With its high, thin tenor threading itself through his mind, colder than steel, sending icy chills across his skin.

_Emrys. _

He pressed himself further into the pillows, the material whispering along the curve of his cheek like hissing accusations as he longed for silence, oblivion -

_Where are you, Emrys? _

He wasn't hearing this. He _wasn't -_

_Emrys, help us. Please. They're coming._

His hands were clenched with a force that was bruising, nails forming crescents in his palms. Nothing was more important than Arthur. Hold on to that. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_ -

_I'm scared Emrys. They will kill me. Don't do this. Don't ignore me. I know you can hear me. _

Merlin pressed his hands over his ears, trying to block out the entreating voice. The tones cracked slightly with real horror, real fear. He couldn't bear this. Ignore it, ignore it -

_I thought you were my friend. I thought we were the same. _

He wavered, agonised by indecision. Harsh, tearing breaths clouded the chill air. His hands were cold as marble against his ears and still the voice was inside his mind,his heart, filling everything -

_I don't want to die. Emrys._

There was a crushing tightness in his chest, as though icy water had flooded his lungs. He was drowning, reeling, blinded by ice blue, and the boy, the boy was going to die -

_Emrys!_

**EMRYS!**

That high voice _exploded_ in his mind like glass shattering, the fragments flying everywhere at once, embedding in his brain -

Merlin leapt to his feet, breathing hard. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably but his mind was quiet and still. It was suddenly, startlingly clear.

He had made his decision.


End file.
